


We Who Are Not Yet Fallen

by mirrorverses



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Battle of Camlann, Gen, M/M, Merthur - Freeform, One Shot, Season/Series 05, Series 5 Speculative, Series Finale, Series Spoilers, The End, everyone dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorverses/pseuds/mirrorverses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the Battle of Camlann.<br/>This is how their story ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Who Are Not Yet Fallen

Arthur stumbles back in shock. _Why is he here?_ The man who killed his father, walking through the battlefield, white beard still pristine despite the fact he’d slain everyone in his path. Though there is no blood, his robe more than makes up for it, with the echoes and screams of thousands woven in. He is terrible, to say the least.  
But, none of that matters if you’re dead. Without another moment’s hesitation, Arthur pushes back into the fray, against the black-clad soldier -another of Morgana’s- slashing and hacking with Excalibur until the man falls at his feet. He spares the fallen a quick glance, making sure he stayed down. Then he launched himself at another, bending and twisting in a rhythm only the frenzied soldiers would know. Excalibur arcs through the air, the blade catching the light of the dying sun, before quickly removing the man’s head from his neck. Blood spurts across his blade, and turning with the momentum of his sword, he cuts across another’s torso, leaving him to die drowning in his own blood, humanity lost in the need to overcome.  
Everything stills for a moment when “Is this what you wanted Morgana?” echoes across the battlefield. Arthur takes the pause to check up on his men. Many of the bodies that litter the ground are Camelot’s as well as Morgana’s, and despite Gwaine, who is staggering along on Percy’s shoulder, most of his closest seem unhurt or nursing minor wounds.  
“Emrys” answers, a jagged sob, and it takes Arthur a bit to register the voice as his sister’s.  
“Is this what you wanted?” the man asks again, standing over her pitiful disheveled form, like a wraith, or maybe Death itself. He jerks his hand and her neck breaks with a sickening crunch. When her body falls to the blood-soaked ground, he sweeps a long fingered hand over her eyes, tenderly, hiding them from the corpses around her.  
He’s so _captivating_ , that Arthur doesn’t notice at first, a knight rising up to meet him, with cold fire in his eyes and rage in his jaw. The bravest of them all.  
When he sees Mordred, Arthur knows he should swing out, knows that it comes down to this final moment. But he stands rooted in place, and Mordred’s sword is swinging through the air, and it’s too late to move before the blade is driving through his chainmail and into the depth of his belly. Fire erupts from the gash, coursing through his body, singing through every nerve, even as blood rushes out, soaking his doublet so that it sticks to his clammy skin. As he falls to his knees, Mordred’s face crumples, hatred and an infinite sadness warring in between his eyes and his mouth. Another yell, hoarse with tears, breaks through cries of his men, who’d just resumed battle, decimating their adversaries without much effort. Mordred suddenly goes flying, and the old man runs toward Arthur, feet skidding along the rough ground in movements that belie his age.  
When he settles next to him, Arthur grits out “You killed my father. Why are you here?”, shifting away from him, eyes hard and unwavering.  
He flinches back, hands stuttering short of his wound, “Oh _Arthur_ ”, the man sighs.

It’s the way his voice breaks his name when he says it, the way his hands shudder violently, the way he strains to keep himself away from Arthur, that makes Arthur see past his wrinkles and beard, to the man beneath. The chaos around them falls away when Arthur asks, “Merlin?” staring at the bearded man above him.  
He transforms almost instantly, skin tightening up over his jaw and cheeks, hands stable once more, and his beard gone, so quickly it’s almost nauseating. He watches Arthur’s face, searching those blue eyes for the emotions he wouldn’t say, astonishment and hurt pooling in his irises.  
Finally, Arthur gasps “Merlin” and there’s pain and relief in his voice, _a you didn’t leave me_ heavy behind his name. He was also accusing, naturally. But when Arthur relaxes into Merlin’s hold, lets his hand find the wound that’s still oozing thick red blood, he tells Merlin that he’s allowed to save his king.  
“Arthur, I’m going to fix this” Merlin promises to the head in his lap.  
“What are you doing?” Arthur asks, confused.  
“Listen,” Merlin pleads, “just trust me this once?” He presses his hand into the wound and holds Arthur’s gaze “Everything will be alright” he assures, as his eyes light up and he prays “ásce mé gyden, ic bedece ðu, forbærning mín Aldfriþ”. Arthur’s eyes widen at the words, but he doesn’t say anything to stop him. Though Merlin’s eyes flash gold, no magic flows, and Merlin’s fingers still come away bloody. So Merlin tries, over and over, his voice breaking over “Aldfriþ”; a trembling hand pressed painfully to the wound, the other smoothing away the golden hairs from Arthur’s sweaty forehead, still refusing to let the blood flow.  
Arthur’s voice finally cuts through Merlin’s frantic attempts “Stop, it’s not helping.” He raises a shaky hand to Merlin’s face, swiping a bloody thumb over his jaw, gently pushing him back.  
Arthur asks quietly, “Merlin, what happened to my father?”  
“When I did the spell, Morgana had Agrivaine put  an amulet on him, that reversed anything I could have done to save him. I- I never wanted it to happen.” Merlin grimaces, pain etched into his face as he speaks.  
“You had every reason to hate my father, how do I know-”  
“Because he was your father Arthur.” Merlin cut in. He wasn’t going to hear this, not with the war around them and Arthur fading from his grasp. “No matter how much he hated me, or how much must you hate me, I wouldn’t have taken him from you.”  
“I know, Merlin.” his king sighs out, his eyes softer now, understanding.

Arthur does know. Merlin, loyal to a fault, Merlin, terrible and bloodied, Merlin, with golden eyes and ancient words, Merlin, with a smile that threatened to outshine the sun. His Merlin, who would have never even tried.  
Arthur breathed shakily, a smile ghosting over his face, while Merlin’s hand fists tightly in his hair. “And, Merlin, I don’t hate you” he adds, his hand finding Merlin’s, the one still pressed to the gaping mess of his stomach.  
Merlin prays again “Please, hear me Goddess, I beg you, heal my King” as tears cover Arthur’s waxy skin, and his eyes turn gold once more.  
But it doesn’t stop Arthur from exhaling when Arthur crosses through the veil.  
His magic can't stop anything.

**Author's Note:**

> It literally takes a village, to get me to write this in two days. Thank you to my lovely betas, travellingskyward and wreckedbytheships who put up with my bitching and horrible punctuation.  
> "ásce mé gyden, ic bedece ðu, forbærning mín Aldfriþ" (very roughly) translates to "hear me goddess, I beg you, heal my king".  
> Comments/constructive criticism are love.


End file.
